


In Every Lie Is a Kernel of Truth

by DizzyDrea



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Romance, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyDrea/pseuds/DizzyDrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal Caffrey isn't at all what he appears to be. He lives in a gilded cage with a view of the Chrysler building, and helps the FBI solve crimes with his vast knowledge of the art of the con. But he has a secret, one he's held on to for a long time. When he blurts it out to Sara in the heat of an argument, he worries that this moment will change his life in ways he can't imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Every Lie Is a Kernel of Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Precious Few Heroes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/118634) by [OnYourMark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnYourMark/pseuds/OnYourMark). 



> This story has been hiding out on my hard drive for a while now, so I think it's about time it came out to play. It was inspired by a story I read a while back, so I thought I'd try putting my own spin on it. Takes place sometime after Season Two's _Under the Radar_ , but before the start of Season Three. 
> 
> Disclaimer: White Collar is the property of Jeff Eastin, Fox Television Studios, USA Networks, and a lot of other people who aren't me. I do this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.

~o~

The meal had been excellent—fillet medallions in a red wine sauce—and the wine had been the perfect compliment—a mid-range Bordeaux with a lively flavor and smooth finish. The conversation wasn't awkward, and with the exception of a couple of pauses, had flowed freely all evening. Even the weather had cooperated—the hurricane barreling down on New York had made the air balmy, thick, but not so sticky that they'd been forced to eat inside.

Neal Caffrey pronounced himself satisfied that he had done his hosting duties to the best of his ability.

"Okay, I'll admit you do romantic dinners well," Sara Ellis said, even as she rolled her eyes at him from across the table.

Neal held up his hands. "Not fishing for compliments."

"Sure you weren't," Sara said, smiling as she lifted her wine glass to her lips for a sip.

"Give me a hand with this?" he asked as he stood and began to collect the plates.

They worked together to clear the plates and serving dishes, leaving them in the kitchenette for later. Neal set about opening a second bottle of wine while Sara wandered back out to the terrace, hooking her wine glass as she went to stand along the wall to admire the view.

"Refill?" he asked her moments later.

She turned, presenting her glass with a smile. "Of course."

He topped up her glass, then refilled his own, setting the bottle on the ledge above him. They turned, standing shoulder to shoulder, staring out at the Manhattan skyline visible from his loft.

It was a nice view, with the Chrysler building peeking out from behind a few other modern glass and steel structures. But a gilded cage was still a cage. 

Sara bumped his shoulder with her own. "What's that sigh for?"

He turned, his conman's smile firmly in place. "Just admiring the view. Both of them."

"Uh-huh," she said, skeptical to the last.

"What? I can't just enjoy the view?"

"You're a conman, Neal," she said, her smile taking the sting out of her words. "You're always planning something."

He turned, stepping in close, his arm winding around her waist to pull her close. "I can't just enjoy the view, admire my companion, without it being part of a con? Is that what you're saying?"

She bit her lower lip, and he knew his words had stung. He felt a flash of guilt. She didn't deserve the brunt of his frustration, but her constant suspicion of him could be wearing. He set his glass on the ledge next to the wine bottle, then reached for hers and did the same. He pulled her closer, bringing her into full contact with him. It always amazed him how well they fit together, and he savored the sweet swirl of arousal as it burned through his veins.

He pulled her closer still, one hand dipping low on her back as the other tangled in her fiery locks. He smiled into her eyes as he lowered his lips to hers. The kiss was slow, sweet. He was in no rush as he explored her mouth, savoring the sizzle of attraction as it sang along his nerves. He poured himself into the kiss, backing her up against the wall as he ravished her mouth, sparking her passion with his own.

After long minutes, he pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, breathing hard, heart trying to beat out of his chest.

"Mmmm," Sara hummed as she dragged a hand through his hair. "You really are good at that."

He chuckled. "I try."

"Neal," she said, shifting a little beneath him.

"It really is over with Alex," he said, hoping to forestall her objections. "It can't ever be anything more than it was and we both know it."

Sara pulled back a little, catching his eye. "How do I know that for sure?"

He pulled back, out of her arms, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them, he saw her puzzled frown. "You aren’t ever going to trust me, are you? Not really?"

"How can I?" she whispered, biting her lower lip again.

He sighed, stepping away as he reached up and took his glass down, taking a long drink. "Nothing I do will matter, will it? Not when you've already decided that I can't change."

She turned, bracing her shoulder against the wall, crossing her arms as if to ward off the chill that wasn't really there. She looked down at her feet, then back up at him.

"Where's the Raphael, Neal?"

His gaze skittered away from her, and he heard her sigh. He turned, leaning back against the wall, tucking one hand into his pocket, giving as unstudied an air as possible while he tried to decide if he could level with her. It wasn't that he didn't like or trust Sara, it was that he knew if he came clean, things would change between them. He wasn't sure if that would be good or bad, and right at that moment, he wasn't sure he was ready to find out.

But the look on her face—at once full of hope and resignation—was his undoing. He knew he'd confess to anything for this beautiful woman. She was a vision, lips kiss-swollen, hair slightly mussed. He loved everything about her, including the fact that he couldn't put one over on her if he tried. Except he had, and the fallout just might destroy whatever goodwill they'd developed, this fragile peace that existed between them.

"What do you know about the provenance of _St. George and the Dragon_?" he asked.

She looked surprised, but she rallied well. "It belonged to Catherine the Great; hung in the Hermitage for over a century. The Bolsheviks sold it to Andrew Mellon in 1931. Mellon loaned it to the National Gallery, and when he died it remained part of their collection." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why are you asking me that? You should know this better than anyone."

The accusation in her tone stung, but he shrugged it off. "The Bolsheviks started selling off artwork in 1930 to fund the industrial expansion of the Soviet Union, but they only sold paintings of high monetary value—anything over two million rubles, which was about four million dollars at the time."

"I know that, Neal," she said impatiently. "What's your point?"

"The Bolsheviks sold those paintings to a number of private collectors, including Andrew Mellon," he continued. "One of the collectors was a German man named Saul Weissberg. He bought _St. George and the Dragon_ for his wife as an anniversary gift. It hung in their living room in Munich until the Nazis came to power. Herr Weissberg was a Jew."

Sara squeezed her eyes shut. "The Nazis seized the painting and sent Herr Weissberg to the camps, didn't they?"

"Yes, they did," he confirmed sadly. This was a story he hated telling, if for no other reason than because, no matter how many times he told it, it always had a sad ending. "Herr and Frau Weissberg and their children were sent to Auschwitz." He took a deep breath. "Andrew Mellon bought the painting from the Nazis, to complete the collection of paintings he'd bought from the Hermitage, and it joined the rest when he donated the money to build the National Gallery."

"Just because that painting was Nazi loot doesn't make it all right that you took it," she said, spearing him with her gaze. 

He could see the anger flashing behind her eyes, and he wished for just a moment that he could make it go away, but he knew he couldn't. "When Andrew Mellon died, his will specified that _St. George and the Dragon_ be returned to the family after 50 years. He'd had false provenance papers drawn up for the piece, and his greatest fear was that those papers would be proved false and the painting would be seized and returned to its rightful owner."

"I can't believe the curator would allow a painting to hang in the National Gallery that had suspect provenance. They work hard to verify the origin of every artifact and painting that comes into their possession."

"You'd think," Neal said, ghosting a smile, "but the reality is that they don't look too closely because they'd rather have the painting. And it's a lot of work to chase down the provenance. So, they wait until the family of the original owners comes forward to claim their property."

"What does any of this have to do with you?" she asked, clearly impatient.

Neal looked down at his shoes before looking up to meet her gaze. "I took that Raphael."

"I knew it!" she said, straightening up and heading for the terrace doors. "I'm calling Peter. You're going back to jail, Neal, and there's nothing you can do about it this time. And you're going to tell me where the Raphael is." She whirled, spearing him with her gaze. "Right now."

"No," he said quietly. He set his glass next to Sara's and crossed to stand in front of her. 

"What do you mean 'no'?" she asked, eyes flashing. He thought about telling her she was beautiful when she was angry, but he thought that might be pushing it.

"I mean, you're not getting it back," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from grabbing her.

"Like hell I'm not getting it back," she said, crowding in close. She poked his chest with her finger. "You're going to jail, Neal. Do you get that? That painting doesn’t belong to you; do the right thing for once in your life and tell me where it is."

"So you can return it to the Mellons?" he asked, then went on without waiting for her to answer. "It isn't theirs, Sara. It's back where it belongs. That's all you need to know."

"Who made you the judge of what's right?" she asked, low and dangerous. "Because from where I'm standing, you're just a thief, and this time you've stolen something that somebody wants back."

He slammed his eyes shut, trying to shake off the sting of those words. No matter that they weren't true, it still hurt. When he opened his eyes, he could still see the fire in Sara's eyes. She was so angry; she'd taken this personally, and he had no idea what she'd do when she'd heard the whole story. But at this point… in for a penny, in for a pound.

"At the time I took the _St. George and the Dragon_ from the Mellons, I had an Interpol warrant in my possession for the return of the painting."

"You—what?"

"Herr Weissberg's daughter, Anna Rosenthal, is alive and living in Haifa, Israel," he said. "She was able to prove that the painting belonged to her family. Given that evidence, Interpol authorized a warrant for the return of the painting."

"And they hired you to take it back?" Her voice held a note of incredulity that made him cringe. "Were you supposed to replace it with a fake and just forgot?"

"No, I wasn't," he said. "I went in, took the painting and left. I could care less if the Mellons think that painting belongs to them. It's hanging on Mrs. Rosenthal's living room wall, where it belongs. And that's where it will stay."

Sara stared at him for long minutes, and he could see the gears in her mind turning, trying to make sense of what he'd just told her. It was the truth, but only part of the truth. If she asked why he did it, he'd tell her the rest. He almost wished she wouldn't, but he knew her too well. Half a mystery was still a mystery and she did love a good mystery.

She threw up her hands and stalked off to the other side of the terrace. She stood quietly facing the wall, hands on her hips as she tried to get her breathing under control. He stayed where he was, waiting her out, figuring it was safer where he was for the moment.

Finally, she turned around. "There's something you're not telling me. There's no way Interpol is using an art thief to steal back art the Nazis stole from the Jews. What aren't you telling me?"

He turned to face her, hands still in his pockets, projecting an air of calm he didn't really feel. "Mrs. Rosenthal is my grandmother. The painting belonged to her parents. I went to Interpol and asked to be the one to recover it."

"I still don't get why they let an art thief go after that painting," she said. "Why not just send a couple of agents to ask for it back?"

"You think they hadn't tried that?" Neal shot back. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his temper. "The Mellons were sticking by the provenance papers, despite the evidence. We had no choice."

"There are always choices, Neal," she said sharply. "And I'm still not buying that Interpol—which has an arrest warrant out for you, by the way—let you go after a priceless painting just because it might have belonged to your family."

"It did belong to my great-grandparents," he said, advancing on her, his anger fueling him. "We had the proof. And they didn't send an art thief. They sent a Mossad agent."

They stood there staring at each other, both of them a little shocked by his admission. He hadn't meant for it to just pop out like that. He'd wanted to say it with a little more tact. He knew she probably wouldn't believe him, but now? He could see the anger and hurt twisting her expression.

"I don't believe you," she ground out. She turned around, shaking her head, hair dancing behind her as she stared up at the stars, still breathing hard.

His sighed, spinning on his heel and heading straight for the bookcase. He reached up, fingering a picture frame on the shelf at eye level before picking it up. He paused, then pulled a book off the lower shelf and headed back to the terrace.

Sara was just where he'd left her. She'd turned around, but her crossed arms were screaming _back off_. He had no intention of doing so. He approached cautiously, stopping just inside her personal space. He handed over the picture frame, and was only slightly surprised that she took it without protest.

He watched as she ran a finger along the surface, tracing the lines of the scene the photo had captured. He knew what she was seeing; he'd looked at it every day for nearly all his life. His great-grandfather was seated on the couch in their apartment in Munich, his great-grandmother perched on the arm of the sofa. They were gazing into each other's eyes with such love that it was simply breathtaking. And, above the couch, behind his great-grandfather, hung the Raphael.

"These are your great-grandparents, aren't they?" Sara asked softly, never taking her eyes off the picture.

Neal nodded, even though he knew she wasn't looking at him. "My great-grandmother insisted that the photo be taken. Their cousin from America was visiting, so she took it and sent them a copy when she got back. It's one of the few pictures that my family has of them. Everything else was lost when they were sent to the camps."

She looked up at him, still cradling the frame in her hands. He could see the uncertainty hovering around her eyes. She didn't know what to make of his confessions; he understood that. He regretted just springing it on her, but there was no way she'd believe him otherwise. He opened the book he'd brought with him, revealing a hollowed-out compartment. He lifted the small black folio out and put the book on the table behind him.

He handed her the folio. "Open it."

She did as he asked, taking a sharp breath at what she found inside. "This is—is this real?"

He chuckled. "It's not a forgery."

She examined it carefully, looking for the lie. The ID inside had the official seal of the The Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations—the official name of the Mossad. The photo was several years old, but it still looked like him. The name was different, a fact he'd have to explain, but it was still him. Officer Neal Rosenthal.

"Rosenthal?" she asked, raising curious eyes to his.

"When my dad died, Mom moved us—my sister and me—to Haifa to live with our grandmother. When she applied for our passports and citizenship papers, she changed our names to Rosenthal. Caffrey was my father's name."

"You grew up in Haifa?" she asked. "You have a sister?"

"Yeah," he said, smiling as the memories washed over him. "I was eight, my sister was five. We lived in this three bedroom house near the beach. I remember my grandmother used to take us down to the beach after school so we could play in the sand. There were a lot of American ex-pats around, so we kept up on what was going on back in New York. It was a great place to grow up."

"When did you join the Mossad?" she asked, attention back on the badge and ID in his wallet.

"All Israelis have to serve a mandatory two years in the military. It didn't take them long to figure out that I had special talents they could use," he explained. "My grandmother taught me to paint when I was a kid—I used to take my sketchbook with me everywhere I went, and draw whatever was going on at the time—and she gave me a love of art history, like her mother had given her."

"The Raphael," Sara whispered.

"Yeah, the Raphael," he said. "I promised her—when I was little and she'd told me the story—I promised her that I'd find a way to get it back for her. So, when Mossad recruited me for a new task force, I was all for it."

"They were going after the Nazi loot, weren't they?"

Neal nodded. "Most museums and private collectors, once the provenance of their paintings is proven false, will simply turn the art over and be done with it. No one wants it to go public that they refused to return a piece of art to a Survivor."

"But there are some that don't care," Sara said. "I've heard of that. I didn't know anyone was doing anything about it."

"It's all under the radar," he said, not surprised at all that she knew. "We work with Interpol to identify the paintings and, if needs be, make plans to recover them. The agents on the task force used to call it The Other Shoah Project."

"But why the forgeries?" she asked, confused. "Why the subterfuge? Surely no one's going to cry foul if you're taking back what was stolen. I'm fairly certain Sterling Bosch wouldn't pursue a claim once the truth was known, and I can't imagine any other reputable insurance company would either."

"And you'd be right," he said, nodding. "But there are times when the paintings simply can't be retrieved any other way. The museum or private party refuses to turn it over, and not even the threat of an Interpol warrant can get them to budge. With some of the more high-profile institutions, we can't take a chance. So, we pull the switch, return the art to its rightful owner and then notify the previous owner that they now have a fake on their wall. Most of them just leave it there because making a fuss would bring a host of bad press they don't want. Some very quietly make it known they've returned the painting to its rightful owner."

"And the bonds?" she asked tentatively. "Why did you forge the bonds?"

Neal sighed and rubbed his forehead. "The bonds were a special case. Bearer bonds don't have anyone's name on them, so ownership is harder to prove. But, we'd finally been able to pinpoint ownership. The trouble was that they'd been stolen from the private collector who'd acquired them. So, I was supposed to forge a set of bonds and do the swap. We figured that the thieves would eventually try to negotiate the bonds and we'd let the local LEOs handle the arrests. Except they were stolen from me before I could make the switch and Peter is far too good at what he does." Sara frowned. "The Mossad couldn't afford for my activities to become common knowledge, so I was basically disavowed and allowed to serve my sentence."

"And the work-release?" she asked. "Was that part of your cover?"

"No, Peter did that all on his own," he said, shaking his head. "He really does want my help solving cases." He shrugged. "I like the work. And, I recovered a painting, so there's that."

"You did?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "How come I didn't hear about that?"

His expression turned sheepish, drawing a scowl to her face. "The Channing had a Haustenberg they weren't supposed to. I contacted my handler and we made sure the painting got back to its original owner. Or, her granddaughter I should say."

"On parole and still pulling heists," she said, shaking her head. "You are a brave man. I'll bet Peter wasn't too happy to hear about that one." His face darkened. "Peter doesn't know," she guessed. "You've never told him. About any of it?"

"No." He glanced away. "I don't think he'd believe me if I told him."

"I believe you."

He turned, his eyes locking with hers. "Really?"

She smiled softly. "It's too crazy a story not to be true. Besides," she said, holding up the wallet for him to take, "you're a good forger, but not that good."

"You wound me," he said as he took back his ID, his smile growing.

"Don't let that ego get out of control," she admonished him.

He tucked his ID in his back pocket, then stood there, staring at her with what he figured was probably a dopey grin on his face, hands still tucked into his pockets as he rocked back on his heels.

She nibbled on her lower lip, trying and failing to stop her own smile from growing. "So, now what?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. Never been on this side of the con before. Besides my handler, you're the only other person who knows what I do."

"Are you still…?"

"Recovering art?" he asked when she'd just trailed off. At her nod, he smiled enigmatically. "After the Haustenberg, my handler and I decided that, if I spotted anything else suspicious while I'm in the FBI's employ, that I should contact him and we'd handle it. As long as it doesn't take me out of my radius, I'm good to go."

"And the Nazi treasure?"

"We had to make it look like the treasure had been destroyed," Neal said, a pinched look on his face. "My handler and I are the only ones who know what really happened."

"So, what really happened?" she asked, her expression avid.

Neal shook his head, a sly smile tipping his lips. "I have no idea. My radius is restricted to two and a half miles around the FBI headquarters, remember?"

"A Mossad agent on a leash," she said, shaking her head, thankfully taking the hint for what it was. "That's got to be frustrating."

He flashed a smile. "I have help."

"Not that Peter knows he's being helpful."

"Peter's not the only one who's helped me."

"Mozzie's a Mossad agent?" she blurted out.

Neal laughed. "No, not even close. Although, I suppose, technically you could call him sayanim—civilians who help the Mossad carry out their orders outside Israel."

"Does he know he's helping you?"

"Mozzie breaks out in hives whenever he has to go within ten blocks of the FBI building," he said, chuckling. "If he knew I was Mossad, he'd absolutely go ballistic."

"So, we're not telling Mozzie," she said, stepping closer to him.

"Nope, we're not," he said, closing the last bit of space between them.

He looped his arms loosely around her waist, pulling her closer. She was still clutching his picture, so he plucked it out of her hands and dropped it onto the table behind him. As soon as he turned around, she was settling her arms around his shoulders, running her fingers up into his hair as she tugged him into a kiss.

There were no less sparks for all that they'd just talked about. If anything, the sizzle along his nerves had grown exponentially over the last half hour or so. And when she opened her mouth under his, his knees almost gave out. He pulled her closer, diving in to her, tongues tangling, pulse racing, heart beating nearly out of his chest. 

Finally, he pulled back—lack of oxygen had recently become a problem—resting his forehead against hers in an echo of the position they'd been in when this whole thing had started.

"So, are you going to tell Peter?"

He pulled back. "Really? This is what you want to talk about right now?"

She giggled. "Neal. You're a good man. Peter needs to know that."

"Peter would have an aneurism if I told him this," he said, rolling his eyes.

"I'll back you up," she said.

He looked deep into her eyes, seeing the honesty of her words reflecting back at him. He reached up, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as he leaned in and kissed her cheek, right next to her ear.

"Thank you," he whispered, sending a shiver down her spine. He smiled as he pulled back. "You don't know how much that means to me."

"I think I do," she said, smiling.

Neal smiled back. How he'd been blessed with this woman, he didn't know. He'd been afraid to tell her the truth, afraid she wouldn't believe him. Or worse, afraid that she'd be so angry that he'd lied to her that she'd storm out and never speak to him again. He still wasn't sure he'd ever be able to tell Peter, but it was nice to know he had backup.

"Come on," he said, pulling back and tugging her with him. "It's getting cold outside."

He picked up the picture and the book and led her back inside, replacing both items on the bookshelf before he turned and pulled her back into his arms.

"Stay," he said quietly, unable to keep the hope out of his voice.

"Yeah," she said, smiling as she ran a hand down his cheek. "Yeah."

The smile he gave her was brilliant, and it reached all the way to his soul. He hadn't counted on just how nice it would feel to not have to lie to her. He'd been expecting this thing with Sara to burn itself out quickly, but now the possibilities were wide open. And as he settled his arms around her, he finally felt some peace.

~Finis


End file.
